Hotel California
by APat96
Summary: The year is 1969. Percy Jackson is a 21-year-old college student on vacation in California. When his car breaks down, he seeks refuge at a mysterious hotel, run by an equally mysterious girl. He can check out any time he likes, but can he ever leave?


He was afraid it would stop, and he would be stranded. The _put-put-put _of the rental's engine seemed fragile, unstable. The old Chevy's frame shook, rattling in the desert wind, and the radio had lost its signal too many times to count. He had eventually just turned it off, humming makeshift melodies to stay awake, to stay sane.

There was also the constant struggle to stay awake—the desert air was cool and dry, rattled his bones and tugged on his eyelids, whispering that if only he would just give in to slumber, everything would be fine. He knew it wouldn't.

Up ahead, he saw a light, a building, and though he had never been a religious man, he said a prayer at that moment and sped up, hoping what he was seeing wasn't a mirage.

The car lunged to a stop and sat creaking and hissing as he collected his jacket and suitcase and nearly ran for the entrance.

_Hotel California_, the sign above the door read. A lone potted cactus stood beside the entrance, shining greenish gray in the flickering porch light. The wooden door creaked open, revealing a tall, arching stucco foyer, inhabited by a couple of old, fabric chairs and one dark, grand concierge desk. No one was around.

"Hello?" He called into the darkness that reached beyond the foyer. He could hear his voice echoing, volleying back and forth between the walls. Nothing.

He was about to give up and return to his car when he first heard the creaking steps coming towards him. He turned in the source of the noise.

A girl, no a _woman_ about his age was coming towards him from the darkness. She wore a long flowing white nightgown, and her wild blonde curls bounced with each step. Her bare feet made little scuffing sounds as she crept along the dusty planks. On her delicately beautiful face, she wore a scowl. Her gray eyes seemed to storm with anger.

"Do you have any idea what time it is?" She whispered, leaning against the doorway she had come through.

"Yes, right, I'm sorry," he replied, wincing. "I was hoping—if it's not too much of a burden—if I could possibly rent a room for the night?"

She sighed, crossing the foyer and pulling open a drawer behind the large desk. She slapped a key onto the surface, dragging out a box of matches with it.

From out of nowhere, it seemed, she produced a lantern and a carton of cigarettes, and with subtle skill, she lit both the lantern and a cigarette within moments of each other.

"Want one?" She asked, holding out the carton.

"No thank you," he replied quickly, "I don't smoke."

She shrugged, tucking the carton away and grabbing the lantern. "Follow me," she said.

She led the way down a dusty corridor, the butte of her cigarette glinting red in the dark. The lantern's light gleamed against the cracked and grimy frames in the hall, illuminating what seemed to be old postcards from the hotel. Almost all showed happy families standing outside a bustling, bright hotel.

_Welcome to the Hotel California!_ One read. _Such a lovely place! Plenty of room! Any time of year!_

It was almost creepy, these postcards. The families seemed so shiny, so staged. Their eyes seemed to follow you even as you moved. He shuddered.

"Well, here it is," she said, finally stopping. "Room 237. You've got a towel and some soap in there, extra linens in the closet. Little television set, too, but it don't get much. If we catch you messing with the antennas, we'll tack on an extra charge."

She extended a hand, offering him the little bronze key. It fell into his hand with a satisfying _plink_, the metal already warm from her hand.

"Checkout's at 10:30, 'less you're planning on staying more than one night. Breakfast is served in the dining room from 6 to 11, and you can order room service by calling down to the front desk."

"Great," he mustered, clearing his throat. "Thanks."

She grunted and shrugged in response, taking a drag on her cigarette.

"What's your name?" she asked finally. "Gotta write it down in the log."

"Percy Jackson."

"Mmkay, Percy," She gave him the once-over. "The name's Annabeth, if you need anything." She began to walk away, her bare feet padding over the boards once more.

"Don't need anything," she said finally, glancing back over her shoulder before disappearing around the corner.

He sighed, pushing a hand through his close-cropped black hair. His green eyes burned with exhaustion. The key fit into the lock and did its job nicely, and soon he escaped into the room, preparing himself to spend a night in the _Hotel California._


End file.
